


burn your kingdom down

by somehowunbroken



Series: sleep tight [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, Horror, Magical Realism, Supernatural Elements, no oilers (real or fictional) were permanently harmed in the writing of this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7117963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On June 26, 2015, Connor McDavid is drafted to the Edmonton Oilers. A few days later, he finds out that his new team is cursed.</p><p>Things get complicated after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burn your kingdom down

**Author's Note:**

> this is... look, i blame the oilers entirely for this. between [this vaguely creepy tweet from the coach](https://twitter.com/EdmontonOilers/status/719560042685464576) and [this entirely creepy article on their site](http://oilers.nhl.com/club/news.htm?id=877940), i had no choice. no _choice_.
> 
> this story contains, in no particular order: creepy supernatural elements, angst with a happy ending, background taylor hall/jordan eberle, very background dylan strome/mitch marner, possible-if-you-squint ryan nugent-hopkins/connor mcdavid, horror elements, poorly-timed interventions from friends, well-timed chirps, and magic. other things, too, but i think that's all i wanted to warn for. this is a gen story with background pairings.
> 
> title from florence+the machine's "seven devils." i'm so hilarious.

"So," Taylor Hall — _Taylor Hall_ — says. He's Connor's new teammate. There's nothing innately weird about talking to Taylor Hall, except.

Except Connor's not in Edmonton yet. Connor's barely an Oiler at all; he's been home from his draft for less than two days, and he's been in touch with people, sure, with Chiarelli and McLellan and Messier, but he's still in his parents' house in Newmarket, and Taylor Hall is in his living room.

"Uh," Connor says, blinking at him for what he's sure is way too long. "Can I… help you?"

Taylor Hall shrugs, and Connor's momentarily distracted by the fact that he can't stop last-naming the guy in his head. "Probably not, but hey, anything's possible."

Connor nods slowly. "Okay?"

"Look," Taylor Hall sighs. "This is terrible, okay? It's not cool, and I wish I wasn't the one who lived closest to you so I didn't have to be the one to tell you about it."

"I feel like maybe I should call an adult," Connor tries to joke. His palms are sweating a little. Taylor Hall grimaces, like he's trying to smile as hard as Connor's trying to be funny. They both miss the mark pretty hard.

"Rexall is cursed," Taylor Hall says bluntly. "And so's everyone who plays there." He snorts. "Welcome to the team, man."

"Cursed," Connor echoes faintly.

He sighs again. "Look, can we sit down or something? It's easier to talk about sitting down."

"Uh, sure," Connor says. "Grab a seat. I'll get some water." He escapes to the kitchen and takes as much time as he can putting ice in two glasses and filling them with water. Unfortunately, it's not that long.

Connor stops as he walks back into the living room. His mom is standing in the hallway, one eyebrow raised as she looks in. "Connor," she says. "We have a visitor?"

"Mom," he says, gesturing, "this is Taylor Hall. From, um, the Oilers."

"Hi, I'm Taylor," he says as he stands back up, smiling and holding out a hand to shake. Connor can tell his mom is getting a little bit of the media facade, and from the way her eyebrow climbs instead of going down, Mom can tell too. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. McDavid. Sorry to just drop in like this, but I wanted to talk to Connor."

Mom's eyes flick over to Connor, and he does his best to seem way less freaked out than he's feeling. She totally doesn't buy it, but he apparently does well enough that she nods and shakes Taylor's hand. She walks into the room enough to brush her hand over Connor's shoulder, and he feels the spell like goosebumps down his arm. It flexes around his fingers, and Connor honestly has no idea what in his expression and Taylor's presence made his mother think he'd need a shield, but he's not going to ask her to take it back.

"Call if you need anything," Mom says, loud enough for both of them to hear it, but she doesn't look away from Connor for a few seconds. Then she turns to smile at Taylor before heading out of the room.

"Well," Taylor says, staring after her. "I've had worse meet-the-parents moments."

Connor can't help it; he snorts. It breaks some of the tension in the room, at least. "Inspiring," he says dryly, handing Taylor his water. "So. Curse."

"Yeah," Taylor says, taking the water and sitting back down. "They say it's a weird one. I don't have any…" He shrugs and wiggles his fingers. "Can't see it, can't feel it, but I have to tell you, even I'd know it was there by this point."

Connor thinks back as he sits on the other end of the sofa. It puts things in perspective, that's for sure — the Oilers' shitty injury history, their record, the way that the top-tier talent hasn't been able to put anything together in Edmonton. The only thing is that curses like that tend to have entire teams of breakers working on them. "Why hasn't anyone, y'know, gotten rid of it?"

Taylor gives him a flat look. "They're trying. They've been trying since before either one of us was born, apparently."

The math is quick, and Connor inhales sharply. "Gretzky. It's Gretzky-related."

"That's the theory, yeah," Taylor says. "They squeezed one more Cup out of that team after the trade, and since then…" Taylor holds his hand up like a high-five, then tips his fingers forward in a nose-dive and lets out a long, low whistle as he drops his hand, ending with a _fwump_ sound when it hits his leg. Taylor's looking at his hand, but he glances up and grins at Connor before wiggling his fingers and making a high-pitched whining noise as he mimes people running away from the crash.

Connor grins back, but it fades off his face quickly. "So the arena is cursed and has been for twenty-five years. And nobody can break it. Why isn't this news?"

Taylor shrugs vaguely. "It's all super hush-hush, James Bond levels of secret. I'm telling you because you're on the team now, but I'm supposed to give you the whole 'keep your mouth shut, don't talk about it' line." He looks sharply at Connor. "It'll be spelled into your contract, once you sign. You'll be limited in who you'll be able to tell about it after that."

"That seems," Connor says slowly. Illegal isn't the right word. "Unethical?"

"They're actively working on it," Taylor says. "Like, there are breakers in the building every day, and we all get charms and spellwork renewed on a weekly basis." He sighs. "Since they're addressing the issue, or at least trying to, they're allowed."

Connor takes a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds, then lets it out. "So the Oilers could have drafted every single player in the first round, and they'd still be stuck. That's what you're telling me."

"Sorry," Taylor offers. There's really not much to say after that, so Connor slumps back against the sofa, trying to process everything Taylor's thrown at him.

He's got no idea how long they sit there before Taylor starts talking again. "It asks you for something," he starts. Connor glances over; Taylor's arms are crossed over his chest, and he's staring out the window. "And if you don't give it up, then it hurts you."

"That's," Connor says, swallowing a little. "That is actually terrifying."

Taylor's smile is grim. "I didn't give up what it wanted from me. A week later, I was out for the season. Needed shoulder surgery. The next year it was Nuge." He shakes his head. "Apparently the curse likes shoulders."

"What did it want?" Connor asks before his brain can catch up to his mouth. "I — nevermind, sorry, that's probably really personal."

"It is," Taylor agrees. "It wanted — I was with someone at the time. It wanted me to give them up, and I said no."

"Oh," Connor says, mind racing. "I'm not — it couldn't ask me to do that." He feels himself blushing.

"You have friends," Taylor says matter-of-factly. "Family. It could ask you for anything, anyone. Or it could ask you for something completely different." He shrugs. "They can't break the curse because they can't figure it out. If they knew what it was going to ask, why it was going to, they'd be closer to breaking it, I guess."

Connor tries to imagine giving up his parents, his brother. Dylan, Mitch, Aaron, any number of teammates and friends from his past. He's sure he'd rather have the injury than lose them in any way. "Does anyone ever just… give it what it wants?"

Taylor's face goes blank. "Yeah. Ebs did."

"Ebs did," Connor echoes. "What did it get from him?"

Taylor shakes his head and stares resolutely away. "That's personal. You can ask him if you want to know." He smiles a little without looking at Connor, and there's something awful in it. "He won't tell you, though."

"Well, fuck," Connor says, falling back against the sofa again.

"I agree," Taylor says. "Believe me, I agree."

-0-

"I mean," Mitch says, lollipop clicking against his teeth. "I'm not actually surprised. Are you surprised? You shouldn't be."

"Please don't be calm about this," Connor all but begs, flopping onto the lounge chair. "Or, like. Please have a solution."

Mitch rolls his eyes. "You know better."

Connor does, is the thing. He's heard it from team practitioners his whole life, and he's had it explained in more classes than he can count off the top of his head: there's no solution without finding the root of the problem. Mitch might be good with the whole curse-breaking thing, but he's not a professional, and even if he was there wouldn't be a damn thing he could do from Toronto.

He sighs anyway. "Marns."

"Davo," Mitch whines back at him. He rolls his eyes again, pushing the lollipop around in his mouth with his tongue. He sucks at it for a minute before shrugging. "Look, if Hall said it was cursed, then I'm sure it's cursed. And if it's cursed to the point where he felt the need to warn you about it before you got there, then they have definitely had more experienced breakers than me trying to fix it. I can't do anything without seeing it, but there's probably nothing I can do even if I visit."

Connor closes his eyes. "I don't want to be cursed."

"Well," Mitch says after a few moments of silence. "Well, that I can help with. Maybe."

Connor sits up so quickly that the chair squeaks. "You can?"

"If I work with someone else, we can probably get you something," Mitch says. "There are, like. Wards and stuff. Charms." He flashes a grin, teeth clamped around the lollipop stick. "You could get a spelled tattoo for protection."

"No tattoos," Connor says quickly, then considers. "Unless it would help more. A lot more."

Mitch shrugs. "Depends on a lot of stuff. It's definitely more heavy-duty than anything I can come up with, but you might not need it. Without knowing more about the specific curse…"

"Right," Connor says. "Maybe we should start smaller than that. I can always get something stronger later on if I need, but you can't un-tattoo."

Mitch takes the lollipop out of his mouth and points it at Connor. "Smart man. Ignore what Stromer says about you."

"Leave me out of the you-and-Dylan show," Connor says instantly. There's the saying about how oil and water don't mix, and there's the one about casters and breakers. Dylan has never worked anything more complicated than a headache relief spell for Connor, and Mitch has never broken anything fancier than an itching jinx, but those lines were drawn for them long before they chose hockey over their other gifts. Hockey didn't exactly mend any fences, either. Their relationship now seems to be built on mutual admiration and an equal dosage of an inability to let go of the past.

Something suddenly occurs to Connor. "Wait, when you say you can do it if you work with someone else…"

Mitch's grin is almost blinding. "You're going to be the star of the me-and-Dylan show," he says, sounding satisfied. "It all works better with people you trust, right? Balance. A caster, a breaker, and the person in the middle to make them hold hands and sing kum-ba-yah."

"I'm out if either one of you is gonna sing," Connor says, but Mitch keeps grinning, and Connor knows he's already sunk. He sighs. "What did you have in mind?"

-0-

Dylan gives him a thin piece of rope to wrap around his wrist before he goes to sign his ELC in Edmonton, and Mitch makes Connor leave his shoes outside when he gets back. They both pronounce him curse-free, and then they get down to the work of trying to prevent him from getting cursed in the future.

"You should just get the tattoo," Dylan says.

"That might be overkill," Mitch says. "We don't know."

Dylan traces a design onto the ground. It glows faintly, then seems to sink through the floorboards. "I don't know if you've noticed, Marns, but we're fucking amateurs." He looks up. "Also, if he gets something that's more generic, it'll keep a lot of random shit away from him. He's Connor McDavid, remember?" He snorts. "People have been taking potshots at him since before Erie."

It's true, as much as Connor doesn't want to admit it. The caster who worked with his pediatrician had started working protection charms over him when he was five, and he's now got two separate practitioners he sees on a biweekly basis, just to keep him safe. "I could," he ventures.

"Table the tattoo for now," Mitch says. "I mean, unless you're super into the idea of getting it done, but you've never struck me as a tattoo kind of guy."

"It can wait," Dylan says, sighing. "I just — more protection, you know? Better overkill than actually killed."

"That's a terrible slogan," Mitch informs him. "I mean, point well taken, but ouch."

Dylan shrugs. "What are we doing tonight?" he asks, and Connor tunes them out as they start talking about power differentials and liminality and a lot of other shit he was allowed to stop caring about once he tested as minimal on the magical scale. He can tell when there's magic around, when it's being done, but that's about it. He's not magic-blind like Taylor apparently is, but he's the next closest thing.

He doesn't tune back in until someone kicks his shin. "What the fuck," he says, mostly reflexively. Mitch is grinning at him, and Dylan's rolling his eyes. "Uh. I was totally paying attention."

"Liar," Mitch says. He holds out his hand and waggles his fingers. "Gimme your hand."

Connor holds his hand out, and Mitch makes quick work out of wrapping a piece of cord around it. He loops and twists it and folds it back over itself in a pattern that's too complicated for Connor to follow, as quickly as Mitch is working, but when he sits back and gestures at it, Dylan nods.

"This part's important," Dylan says. The humor that's usually in his tone is completely gone, and Connor looks up. Dylan looks completely serious. "You need to concentrate on what Marns and I are saying. You're not going to understand most of it, okay, but that's not important. You need to stare at the cord, and you need to concentrate as hard as you can on listening to us. Got it?"

"Yeah," Connor says. He can concentrate.

"He means it," Mitch says. "It's not gonna be as easy as you think it is." He trades a look with Dylan. "You're probably gonna, like. Hear other shit."

Connor looks at Mitch, then at Dylan. "Other shit," he echoes.

Dylan shrugs. "I can't tell you what. I have no _idea_ what. It's just important that you concentrate on us, okay, and you don't let anything else in."

"This is sounding more and more like something we should get professionals to do," Connor says. He's getting a little nervous about it.

"Too late," Mitch says. "You signed your ELC, remember? And plus, it's us. We know you, you know us. That makes it stronger, even if we don't know the fancier spellwork."

Connor sighs. "Okay, fine. I'll just… concentrate."

"Okay," Dylan says. "Ready?"

"Ready," Mitch replies.

Dylan starts talking again. He's right; Connor has no idea what he's saying. He does his best to not try to make sense out of the words, to just listen and concentrate and stare at the cord. Mitch's voice joins him a little while in, sometimes saying the same things, sometimes different. It's not really difficult, listening to them and staring and the cord, and Connor's trying not to let himself relax into it.

It's a good thing, too, because there's a sudden, sharp cry just to his left. There's nobody there, he knows, but it sounds like someone's in pain. He wants to turn, to look, but he breathes in deeply and thinks about Mitch's voice, about Dylan's, and the crying fades.

It's replaced by yelling, then a dull, rhythmic thumping sound. It keeps changing just as Connor tunes it out, drawing his attention for a second at a time until he can wrench it back. He has no idea how long it's been by the time he hears a low, rolling sound like thunder, followed by a crackling sort of laughter that feels like it's crawling its way up his spine. It fades quickly, though, and then he doesn't hear anything.

"Connor," Dylan says, and Connor nods a little, still focusing on the cord as well as he can. "It's done, Connor. We're finished."

"Almost," Mitch contradicts. "You can look up now, though."

Connor nods again. He takes a deep breath and lets it out before he looks up. They're both staring at him, clearly concerned, and he offers them a weak smile. "So that was intense."

"It worked, though," Mitch says. He gestures to the cord, and when Connor glances back at it, he's surprised to see it glowing brightly against his skin. "What did you hear?"

"All sorts of stuff," Connor replies. "Yelling, mostly. Um. Weird laughing."

"Creepy," Dylan comments. "Okay, well, the last part is just a glamour charm, so you won't see it or feel it, and nobody else will unless they're specifically looking for it."

"The trainers?" Connor asks.

"You'll want to tell them," Dylan says, nodding. "Maybe not the whole truth, but, like. Let them know you've got wards that you brought from home, and that you want to keep them." He rolls his eyes. "Tell them you're superstitious about it. They can test to make sure they're not luck charms, and you should be fine."

"Okay," Connor says. He wiggles his fingers. "Hide it."

Dylan reaches out and pokes the cord, then glances at Mitch. He shrugs and does the same, and as Connor watches, the cord sinks into his skin.

"That is freaky," he says as levelly as he can. He rolls his wrist, but he can't feel it at all. "Is it actually still there?"

"The cord?" Mitch asks. "No. I can sort of explain what happened to it if you want me to try, but… no. The magic's good, though."

"I'm good," Connor says. He rubs at his wrist as he looks up. "Thanks, guys. I mean it."

"You can thank us by buying dinner," Dylan suggests. "I haven't ever done that much at once before, and holy shit, am I starving."

"Thai?" Mitch asks hopefully.

"Hell yes, Thai," Dylan says.

Connor laughs. "Okay. Let's get Thai."

-0-

Edmonton is a blast. Connor loves it more than he thought he would; it's an incredible group of guys, and other than the elephant in the room that is the curse nobody really talks about, it's a fun time.

Until, of course, Jordan goes down in preseason.

"Shoulder," he says, clipped from pain and probably also annoyance. "Fucking shoulders. I swear to god."

"It's not," Taylor starts, reaching out for him. He visibly hesitates and then pulls his hand back, and Connor sees everyone notice it, but nobody says anything. "Is it bad?"

Jordan lets out a huge sigh. "No. A few weeks, maybe a month."

"That's good," Taylor says, relief evident in his tone. Ryan nods, reaching up to touch his own shoulder almost absently. Connor vividly remembers Taylor's offhanded comment — _apparently, the curse likes shoulders_. It's a lot less funny now, and it hadn't really been funny to start with.

"I'm just gonna," Jordan sighs, nodding at the door. "One of the trainers is driving me home. I'll see you guys later, okay?"

There's a murmured goodbye as Jordan walks past them. Connor sees Taylor reach out to clap Jordan on the good shoulder as he passes, and Jordan gives him a brief smile, but keeps going.

Nobody brings up the awful look on Taylor's face when Jordan just leaves, but there's no way anyone misses it.

It's mostly quiet in the locker room; they all get cleaned up and dressed, and Connor heads out with Taylor when they're both ready. It's awkward in the car for reasons Connor's not really sure he wants to examine, but by the time they get home, he feels like he has to say _something_.

"Hallsy," he starts.

"Don't," Taylor says flatly. "Just — don't, Davo." He gets out of the car and heads for the door, and Connor scrambles to go after him.

Neither of them brings it up; Taylor slowly unwinds, and after a while, Connor does too. By the time they head to bed that night, it's like nothing was ever weird.

It's a little weird again in the morning, but Connor can admit that's his fault. "I just want to check on him," he insists. It's impossible not to read things into the expressions working their way across Taylor's face, but Connor does his best not to react.

"Tell him I said to get better soon," Taylor finally says, sounding — bitter, maybe, or just resigned. Connor nods and escapes instead of dwelling on it.

The drive to Jordan's is pretty quick; he didn't call ahead, but Jordan doesn't seem surprised to see him. He leads Connor into the house and talks him through getting them both glasses of water.

Jordan doesn't really beat around the bush, and Connor's grateful for it. "You're here to ask about the curse, right?" He gestures to his shoulder. "This is just shitty luck. If this was the curse, I'd need surgery." He pauses. "Well, probably. The curse does have a thing for shoulders."

"Oh," Connor says. He's not really sure how to respond to that. "I'm… glad you don't need surgery?"

"Me too," Jordan says dryly. "I'm betting that didn't answer your burning questions, though."

"I'm afraid," Connor says bluntly. "I mean, it was nice of Hallsy to warn me, I guess? But I've been kind of terrified since June, Ebs. I've got all the protection that the team can give me, and I've got a little something extra from home, but…"

Jordan sighs. "There's not a whole lot I can tell you, kiddo."

"You are only seven years older than me," Connor says flatly.

That makes Jordan smile a little, at least. "You heard I gave it something, right? And you wanted to ask me how it works, what it wanted."

Connor nods.

"I can't tell you," Jordan says simply. "I don't — I have no memory of whatever it was."

"You," Connor starts, mind reeling. "How can you not remember? It had to be huge!"

"As far as I can figure, me not remembering is part of… whatever it was," Jordan says. "I don't know why. I don't even have a guess, to be honest." He looks across the room. "I tried, for a long time. The more I think about it, the less I know about it, which doesn't make sense. I don't know anything, so how can I know less?" He sighs, frustrated. "Want to know the worst part?"

Connor does not. If there's a part that worse than what he's already heard, then no, he doesn't want to hear it. "What?" he asks anyway, swallowing against the clicking in his throat.

"I can't even tell you if it was worth it," Jordan says. "I don't know what it was. I don't know why I chose to give it up. I have no idea if the alternative would have been better or worse." He laughs bitterly. "Maybe that's what I gave up. Maybe I gave it, like, the knowledge that me not knowing would bother me for the rest of time."

"Do you think," Connor starts.

Jordan shakes his head. "I'm the only one who doesn't know, that's what I think," he says, and his voice is a little distant. "I don't — I have the vague idea that someone told me once. A few times. But I can't fucking remember it, Davo. I don't even know who told me."

Taylor, Connor thinks instantly. Taylor knows what it was. Taylor knows exactly what Jordan gave up, but Connor knows way fucking better than to ask Taylor about Jordan at this point.

"I'm sorry," he offers. It's weak, but it's all he got.

Jordan smiles, and there's absolutely no humor in it. "Thanks," he says. "I wish I could say I was, too. I probably should be."

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Jordan sighs loudly. "Let's go watch NBC's pregame stuff," he says. "We can make fun of Milbury. You in?"

"I'm in," Connor says, getting up and following him into the living room.

-0-

Connor is alone on the ice, skating drills up and down the length of the rink. It takes him a little while to realise he's not alone, but once he sees someone on the bench, he can't stop noticing how many people are watching. He keeps pushing, keeps skating until his legs burn, until his hands are shaking, until his lungs feel like they're seizing in his chest. His teammates watch from the bench without saying a word; his parents and Cam are behind the net, frowning every time he takes a shot, whether he makes it or not. Friends and old teammates dot the stands, watching, watching, never saying a word.

He keeps pushing. He has to keep pushing, show them that he's got this, that they weren't wrong to put their faith in him. He can't feel his feet and it's hard to get enough air, but he keeps going.

He notices right away when people start leaving. It's the people he knows least first, filing out of the arena in silence; then it's his teammates, standing up from the bench and disappearing into the locker room. The lack of sound is somehow loud in Connor's ears as his brother stands up and turns away, and as his parents follow. He's alone in the rink when the door closes behind them, with the exception of two figures in the very last row of seats. He can't tell who they are. He's not sure it matters.

Connor keeps skating, keeps pushing, even as he coughs and wheezes and spits bloody foam onto the ice, even as the ice absorbs it and smoothes over beneath his skates, leaving no imperfections. He keeps going until he skates over the Oilers logo at center ice and collapses, cheek pressed to the cold ice beneath him, body twitching from overexertion.

 _This is your price_ , a voice he doesn't recognise whispers, and that's when Connor wakes up.

Hockey players have bad dreams, things about injury, but Connor knows right away that this dream was different. His hands are trembling as he pushes himself upright in his bed, and he doesn't have a chance to get his heart rate under control before his phone is ringing.

"Davo," Mitch says shakily. "Okay, hear me out here, but—"

His phone beeps. "Marns," Connor cuts in. "It's Dylan."

Mitch is silent. "Fuck," he says hoarsely. "I was really hoping you weren't about to say that."

"Hang on," Connor says. It takes him a minute to get them both connected, but when he does, Dylan greets them with a string of profanity. It's how he shows he cares, sometimes, and Connor feels a little better for hearing it.

"We saw it," Mitch says when Dylan's tirade peters out. "Or, well. I did, and I know Dylan was next to me in the stands. I'm guessing it's not coincidence."

"Definitely not," Dylan agrees. "Fucking _shit_ , Davo. You need to get out of there."

"I can't," Connor says helplessly.

"It's going to kill you," Dylan snaps.

Connor shakes his head even though they can't see him. "It won't. I won't give it anything."

"Then it'll take something," Dylan says. "That's how this curse thing works."

"I can't just leave," Connor says. "I mean, first of all, contract. But also," he continues, voice rising to cut off their protests, "if this is Gretzky-related, if the team was cursed because he was traded and I leave…"

"Shit," Dylan says again, sounding spooked. "Shit, I didn't even think of that. If they trade you, everyone on the team is going to goddamn die, aren't they? Revenge of the curse." He pauses. "Which is a revenge curse to begin with. Super revenge."

"I don't really want to test that theory," Connor says, closing his eyes and letting his head thunk back against the wall.

Mitch gives a thoughtful little hum. "It worked, though."

"What worked?" Connor asks.

"Well, I didn't have any terrifying dreams about Taylor Hall when he had his shoulder thing happen," Mitch says. "Or any of the other guys."

"Holy shit," Dylan says, but this time it's more wondering than angry. "You're totally right. The magic we did helped."

"I'm going to need you to repeat that thing about me being right so I can make it your ringtone," Mitch says. "But, like. I don't know how much it helped? But it did _something_. We were there."

"Breakers can't break what they can't see," Dylan adds. "Now you can see."

They sit in silence for a moment before Mitch speaks again. "It looked weird," he says cautiously. "Like, I wasn't looking at first, because I was watching Davo. And maybe it was weird because it was a dream."

"No, it totally looked weird," Dylan says thoughtfully. "Like… I don't know, like it was sitting on top."

"Yeah," Mitch agrees.

"Sitting on top?" Connor asks, frowning.

"Think about the cord thing we did," Dylan says. "You start with something physical, then you do the magic crap, and then it stops being physical."

"This wasn't," Mitch adds. "It's weird. It's probably just the dream, but it's still weird."

"Just what I was hoping," Connor mutters. "My curse is a _weird_ one."

Dylan scoffs. "Don't hog it. It's not _your_ curse."

Connor opens his mouth to retort, but ends up yawning instead. There's a moment of silence when he stops, and then Mitch snorts.

"Yeah, okay, it's three in the morning," he acknowledges. "Let's all try to get some sleep, and we can work on this tomorrow."

"Yeah," Dylan says. "I'm totally not going to have another nightmare. Looking forward to it."

"Sleep well!" Mitch says cheerily, then hangs up.

"Dick," Dylan says, incredibly fond. "You gonna get back to sleep?"

"I'm going to try," Connor replies. "Practice in the morning."

Dylan groans. "Good luck," he says. "And hey, Connor?"

"Yeah?"

"We're gonna handle this," he says confidently. "The three of us, okay? We'll figure something out."

"Of course we will," Connor says, smiling even though there's nobody there to see it. "G'night."

-0-

Nothing happens, and nothing happens, and then the Flyers roll into town.

Connor's skating fast, but that's not news. He has the puck on his stick, he's heading for the net, and then—

He refuses to go to the locker room, at first. There's enough pain that he knows without a doubt that something is broken, but maybe if he can put it off a little longer, if he can make it through the game, he'll cheat the curse out of a little bit of the pain it's due.

The trainers take one look at him during intermission and shake their heads, though. There's only so much he can do, so much he can protest, so he sighs and follows them into the medical room.

Taylor knocks on the door at some point later. He's showered and changed; the game must be over, then. "We won it for you," he offers. "It's your shoulder, isn't it."

It's not a question. Connor nods stiffly anyway.

"Fucking _shoulders_ ," Taylor says tiredly. He walks in and slumps into the visitor's chair. "How bad?"

"Broken collarbone," Connor admits.

Taylor leans his head back against the wall and sighs heavily. "Fucking shit, Davo. That's — are they saying how long?"

Connor badly wants to shrug, but that's really not an option. "I'm heading to the hospital soon," he says. "I guess I'll know more after that."

"Fuck," Taylor repeats helplessly.

"Tell me about it," Connor mutters."Hey, can you get me my phone?"

Taylor tilts his head down so he can level Connor with a look. "I know you already talked to your parents," he says. "Who do you need to talk to so badly that it can't wait?"

Connor closes his eyes. "Dylan and Mitch. They're… they were probably watching. I need to let them know I'm okay."

"You are not okay," Taylor says flatly.

"Taylor," Connor whines. He's not too proud to admit it.

Taylor sighs. "Fine," he grumbles, heading out of the room. He's only gone for a minute or so before he comes back with Connor's phone. "You missed a few texts," he announces, dropping it next to Connor on the exam table.

Connor's almost afraid to look, but he picks his phone up and swipes the screen. There are over two hundred texts and seventeen missed calls, but he'll deal with that later. Definitely later. He opens up his group chat with Mitch and Dylan, which one of them had re-titled _SpOoOkY guys_ at some point, and painstakingly taps out _im ok_.

 _fuck that noise,_ Mitch types back a second later. _my shoulder hurts davo wtf happened??_

 _mine too,_ Dylan adds. _its broken isn't it._

 _yes,_ Connor types. _sorry._

 _hell,_ Dylan replies. _sorry we didn't protect you better._

 _put some ice on that,_ Mitch adds. _if its hurting us it must be killing you._

 _not dead yet,_ Connor manages to type. _thanks guys. text you later._

"Everything good with the boyfriends?" Taylor asks when Connor puts his phone down.

"They're fine," Connor says tiredly. "Worried, I guess."

"No shit," Taylor says dryly. "That was fucking terrifying to watch, and I'm _not_ sleeping with you."

Connor coughs. "Uh. The fuck, Hallsy."

Taylor shrugs. "S'fine, man. Not like I have any room to throw rocks or whatever."

"I'm pretty sure that's _cast stones,_ " Connor says. "Also, I'm not sleeping with them. Either of them."

"You're not?" Taylor asks, blinking at him. "Wait, really? Are you sure?"

"Am I _sure_?" Connor echoes disbelievingly. "Yeah, I'm sure. They're my best friends. That's it." And maybe more than that to each other, but Connor's going to claim willful ignorance until they tell him otherwise. "Are you sure I'm the one on painkillers and not you?"

Taylor looks wounded. "Sorry, man. I didn't mean to… sorry."

"Yeah," Connor mutters, closing his eyes. "Maybe, like, ask next time? Instead of assuming."

"Sorry," Taylor offers again. He waits a beat, then asks, "So, are you…"

Connor forces his eyes back open just so he can glare at Taylor. "Anyone ever tell you that your timing sucks?"

Taylor's smile is thin and strained. "Ebs has been known to tell me that."

There's something brittle in there that Connor doesn't want to touch when he's hurting and annoyed, so he makes himself take as deep a breath as he can manage before answering. "I'm not dating anyone. Or sleeping with anyone. I'm just playing hockey, and being pissed that apparently now I can't play hockey for a while because someone cursed my arena before I was even born, and I'm paying for it."

"My timing really does suck," Taylor observes after a moment. "Okay. For the record, I'm not either, and if you decide to find someone to, uh, whatever…" He flaps his hand. "I don't care if you bring them back to the house."

"That's great, Hallsy," Connor says. He's completely mystified as to how he'd gotten into this conversation in this particular situation. "Can I go to the hospital now? The hospital sounds way better than having more of this conversation."

"Yeah," Taylor says. "I'll, uh. I'll go figure out what's going on."

"Thanks," Connor says tiredly.

Things get a little blurry after that; he goes to the hospital, where they confirm that he's going to need surgery, and then they give him something that makes the pain stop, but also makes him miss a bunch of time. He's aware of his mom flying in, of the doctor telling him he's heading to surgery, of the recovery room after. He's still loopy when he gets back home, but he's brought sharply back to himself the next day, when the painkillers finally wear off.

"Fucking ouch," he says weakly, trying to move as little as possible while still trying to find a comfortable position.

"Connor?" his mom calls. "Are you awake, honey?"

"Yeah," he says.

She comes in with a cup of water and a pill, which he takes gratefully. She touches his arm gently, and there's a swift shot of relief, coolness flooding his veins and washing the pain right out. He takes what feels like his first deep breath in days, and she smiles at him sympathetically.

"The surgery went well," she says. "You're going to make a full recovery. The healer and the surgeon agree completely."

Connor's never really had reason to hate the fact that magically healing someone is frowned upon unless it's life-threatening. He understands that it's a huge power drain, and that it's not really practical to heal anything bigger than a broken bone unless it's an emergency situation, but he would really love it if someone could just toss a spell at him so he could skip the recovery period and get back to the game.

"Good," he says instead of voicing any of that. "Thanks, Mom."

"Of course," she says. "I can sit with you until the pill kicks in. There's no reason for you to hurt."

"Thanks," he says again, grateful. "You're the best."

She smiles at him. "You just get better," she says. "Everyone else will take care of the rest."

-0-

His mom stays for a week, which is amazing, but it's also kind of awkward. Connor is glad she made the trip, and he's glad that she's there to help, but Connor would really like to talk about the curse, and he can't while there's the chance that she could walk in at any time. He tries not to seem too relieved when she tells him she's flying back home, but she laughs anyway.

"Call me if you need me," she says as she's heading to the car. Taylor's already loading her luggage.

"I will," he promises. "Have a good flight. And thanks again, Mom."

"Love you," she says, hugging him carefully, and then she leaves.

Connor waits until the car pulls away from the curb, and then another ten minutes just to be sure, and then he calls Ryan.

"Hey," Ryan says. "Doing okay, Davo?"

"Yeah," Connor says. "My mom's flying home, so I guess I don't look super pathetic anymore."

Ryan snorts. "Sure, bud."

Connor rolls his eyes, but he's grinning. "Look, I don't want to interrupt anything, but are you free? I wanted to talk about what happened."

"Yeah, absolutely," Ryan says, tone going serious. "I'm between things right now, actually. I can be there in like half an hour."

"That would be great," Connor says, relieved. "Thanks, Nuge."

He putters around until Ryan gets there; he's still mostly useless at anything involving arms, which shoots down a lot of activities, but he manages to get two bottles of water uncapped and in the living room for them to drink while they're talking. Ryan grins when Connor points it out.

"Thanks," he says, sitting on the sofa. "So, what's on your mind?"

Connor fiddles with the cap to his bottle. "So Hallsy told me about the curse right after I was drafted," he says. "And he told me I wouldn't be able to tell anyone about it after I signed my ELC, so…"

"So?" Ryan prompts when Connor drifts off.

"I told Marns the next day," Connor says. "And then we told Stromer."

Ryan blinks at him. Connor's not sure what he'd been expecting, but clearly it wasn't this. "They know?"

"They know," Connor confirms. "They made me a charm… thing." He holds his hand out, even though it's not visible to the naked eye.

Ryan's gaze sharpens, and he reaches out. His hand hesitates over Connor's wrist. "Can I?"

"Sure," Connor says, shrugging his good shoulder.

Ryan nods and touches Connor's wrist, and Connor can suddenly see the cord wrapped around his hand like it had been the day Dylan and Mitch spelled it onto him. It doesn't feel any different, but Connor sucks in a breath anyway. "Uh."

"This is good work," Ryan says almost absently, tracing one of the lines. "I mean, it obviously didn't prevent you from getting hurt, but…"

"I think it did?" Connor says. "Or, like. I think it would have been worse. I'm going to be a hundred percent fine in a few months."

Ryan looks up at him. "And you think it would've been worse without this. That you wouldn't have recovered."

"I don't know for sure," Connor says. "But it'd get a lot of mileage out of me never recovering, right?"

"Yeah," Ryan says, letting go of Connor's wrist. As soon as he does, Connor's wrist looks bare again. It's really weird. "Probably."

"I'm a little worried about them," Connor goes on. "I had a dream, before all of this happened."

Ryan nods. "You don't have to tell me about it if you don't want to." His face goes distant. "I don't like talking about mine."

"Yeah, no," Connor says, shuddering a little. "But they saw it."

"They what?" Ryan asks, suddenly focusing on Connor again.

"They were in the dream," Connor tries to explain. "Like, lots of people were _in_ the dream, but they were there. Dreaming it with me, except from, like, the nosebleeds. Just watching." He shrugs again; talking about it is uncomfortable. "They also both said their shoulders hurt after I got hurt."

"Christ," Ryan mutters. "That's… wow. I've never heard of that."

Connor slumps carefully against the back of the sofa. "Do you think they're in danger from it? Like, will they be able to play against us in Edmonton without being in danger?"

"I have no idea," Ryan says slowly. "This thing… it's weird. I would normally say no, because it's an Oilers thing that only affects Oilers players, but…"

"But them getting hurt here because they tried to protect me would hurt me," Connor finishes. "So it could happen."

Ryan shrugs a little helplessly. "I wish I could say no, but."

"Yeah," Connor says, closing his eyes. "I wish you could, too."

"It's weird," Ryan says again. "It does things I wouldn't expect it to." He hesitates a little. "You know about Ebs, right?"

Connor opens his eyes and turns his head so he can look at Ryan. "I know he gave something up. I don't know what, though."

Ryan shakes his head, and there's an awful expression on his face for a moment before it clears. "You should ask Yak."

"Yak?" Connor asks, frowning. "What does Yak have to do with it?"

"Pretty much everything," Ryan says cryptically. "He's the only one who can give you the whole story. Or, well, as much of the story as we know."

"That's not ominous at all," Connor mutters. "Thanks, I think. I guess I'll catch him on an off day."

Ryan grins. "Bring a sour cream donut from Timmies," he advises. "He's easily bribed."

"Good to know," Connor says, smiling back. "Thanks for coming over, Nuge."

"Any time," Ryan promises. He checks his phone for something, then looks back up at Connor. "My dinner plans just cancelled on me. If you can figure out how to wear something that's not the same sweatpants you've had on for three days, I'll buy you food."

"Food," Connor says happily. "For that, I'll even shower."

Ryan's laughter follows him down the hallway, and even though he doesn't have any more answers than he had before Ryan arrived, Connor feels better than he has since he fell.

-0-

Connor means to talk to Nail, he really does. It's important, but it doesn't feel really pressing. They're both busy; Connor is starting to rehab his shoulder, and Nail is still playing, trying to fill in the Connor-sized spot on his line. Connor figures that reminding him he's not playing would be a little counterproductive at this point.

But then, well. Carolina.

It's early December by the time Nail greets him at the door. He's moving stiffly with the boot on his foot, but he is moving under his own power, so he's already doing better than Connor feared. The video hadn't looked good, and repeated reassurances that Nail was, in fact, more grumpy than injured hadn't helped. The donut does make him smile, though.

They make small talk for a while; they're both on IR, so it's not like they can update each other on team news. Connor has no idea how to bring it up, but Nail actually gives him the perfect opportunity about twenty minutes in.

"Dumb luck," he grouses, flicking his fingers towards his ankle. "I always get the stupidest, smallest injuries." He sighs.

"You haven't," Connor starts, then falls silent. There's really no polite way to ask what he wants to know.

Nail looks at him and shrugs a little. "You won't be the first to ask."

"You haven't had anything really bad," Connor says. "And Hallsy said — he said Ebs was the only one who gave something up."

"It's true," Nail says, smiling thinly. "Do you know what Ebs gave up?"

Connor shifts uncomfortably. "Hallsy wouldn't say, and Ebs doesn't remember. Nuge said I should ask you."

"Of course he did," Nail mutters, but he sounds more resigned than upset. He sighs a little. "Before I came to Edmonton, Hallsy and Ebs — they were together. Dating."

Connor blinks. "Oh." Wow. That really makes all of Taylor's pining a lot sadder, and makes Jordan way more of a dick than Connor thought he could be. There's no way Jordan doesn't know how Taylor feels, but he acts like he's totally oblivious.

"It's not whatever you're thinking," Nail says. He stares out the window, tapping his fingers against his leg. "This thing, this curse. It — I don't know how to say it." He frowns. "It eats pain."

"Eats pain," Connor echoes. "Like, it feeds on bad things?"

"Feeds on, yes," Nail says, nodding. "When I was drafted, the year I should have started playing, there was the lockout. No hockey, nothing on the ice." He shakes his head again. "When the season finally started, it was… hungry. It needed a lot, and when it asked me…" He laughs, but it's brittle.

"You said no," Connor guesses. "It wanted something too big, and you said no."

"It wanted me to forsake my family, my friends," Nail says distantly. "To devote myself only to hockey, to the ice. I saw myself bleeding in every faceoff circle, saw my teeth flying out against the posts." He finally turns to look at Connor. "I panicked."

"I don't blame you," Connor says, feeling queasy. It's uncomfortably close to his own dream. "You got out of it, though."

Nail shakes his head. "There is a way around, but no way out. I told Jordan, and he told me that he would take care of it. And I let him."

"What did he do?" Connor asks slowly.

"Pain given upon command is powerful," Nail says. "Pain offered up, though, the curse cannot resist it. Ebs gave it his relationship with Hallsy."

Connor's stunned for a moment. "He — what?"

"I didn't know them well, not then," Nail says. "Talking to Nuge — they were happy, so happy. They had plans for the future, things like that, but Ebs saw that I was terrified, and he heard what it wanted. And what it takes when you refuse, it could be anything. I thought it might kill me." He shakes his head. "I think he thought that he had a loophole. That he would give up what he had, and then he would build it back again."

"Curses don't work that way," Connor murmurs.

"They do not," Nail agrees. "And it feeds on pain, yes? So Ebs gives up his feelings for Hallsy, and the curse makes him forget that he ever had them, that he could even want to have them. But Taylor remembers the whole thing, and Jordan cannot forget that he cannot remember."

"They're both still hurting," Connor says after a moment, stunned. "It's still feeding off of that."

"And I'm still safe," Nail says. Connor's never heard someone sound so upset about that before, but he gets it. "Nothing out of the ordinary for me. All of my injuries are just hockey things, and I haven't heard it once since then."

"That's," Connor says, shaking his head.

"It is what it is," Nail says, and now he sounds tired. "It is what it will always be, since nobody can break this curse."

"That's bleak," Connor says, and Nail just nods. There's really nothing else to say.

-0-

The good thing about it being the middle of the week is that neither the Otters nor the Knights have a game. Dylan's just finishing up at practice, but Mitch has a day off, so Connor Skypes him as soon as he gets home so he can relate the whole story.

Mitch stares at him. "Davo. That's not how curses work."

"It's how this one works," Connor says, pushing a hand back through his hair. "I know it's fucked, Marns, but—"

"No," Mitch interrupts. He leans in and the screen freezes, jumps, distorts until it settles again. "Connor, listen to me. That is _not how curses work_. They don't think. They don't have that ability. It's a spell, and spells aren't capable of independent thought. You can't reason with a spell."

Connor shrugs. "It's been here for a long time. Maybe it's just really strong."

"Or," Mitch says slowly, "maybe it's not a curse."

Now it's Connor's turn to stare. "It's not just bad luck."

"Hold on, we're Skyping Dyls into this," Mitch says, leaning back again. A moment later, Dylan's face pops up. He's clearly just home from practice; his hair's still wet from his shower. "Stromer. Theory time."

"Oh, good," Dylan says breezily. "I love telling you how shit your theories are."

"Davo, tell him," Mitch says, not rising to the bait.

Connor sighs, but he goes through it again. Dylan's heard most of it before, but the info from Nail is all new. When he finishes, he shrugs. "Marns is suddenly of the opinion that it's not a curse."

Dylan's eyes are wide as they flick back and forth, probably glancing between Connor's face and Mitch's on his laptop screen. "Holy fuck. It's not a curse."

"I knew it," Mitch breathes, leaning in. "The question is, what—"

"We already traced it back to Gretzky," Dylan cuts in. "If it's Gretzky-related, then we have to look all the way back then, and what else would have the power to—"

"No," Mitch says. "No, Dyls, what the fuck."

"It makes sense," Dylan insists. "You can't tell me it doesn't make sense."

Mitch sits back. "It makes perfect sense," he says. "I don't have to like it."

Connor coughs loudly. "Could someone maybe fill me in?"

"Rexall's not cursed," Dylan says. "It's possessed."

"By the hockey gods," Mitch adds. "Or, like. Something related to them. Something that got pissed off when Gretzky was traded, or something that was a consequence of that deal going through."

Connor sits silently for a moment. "What the fuck," he finally says.

"Curses don't think," Dylan says, echoing what Mitch had said earlier. "A curse is like… think of it like an app on your phone, right? A curse, a spell, it serves a purpose. It's created to do a thing, and it might have different ways of doing what it's meant to do, but it can't just… do other things. Your calendar app can't suddenly check your email for you just because you need to check your email."

"That's not a bad comparison," Mitch says, sounding a little impressed. "So if it was a curse, then someone put it there to fuck the team over. It has a lot of ways of doing that, right? It gives you two options: give me this or I'll take that."

"There's no option three," Dylan goes on. "Not with a curse. You can't offer it something else in exchange. There is no curse that works that way."

"So there's something with a brain behind this," Connor says slowly. "If that's true, then why haven't the breakers figured it out?"

"Think about it," Mitch stresses. "They're there all the time. They study it, they theorise about it, they poke it with a stick on a daily basis. If it's something powerful enough to stay there for twenty-five years, something powerful enough to bargain with people without revealing itself…"

"It can definitely make people who have constant contact with it forget," Dylan finishes when Connor doesn't say anything. "Fuck."

"Fuck," Mitch echoes. "That's… _fuck_."

Connor swallows. "What do we do? Do I call someone?"

"No," Dylan and Mitch say in unison. They pause to look at each other through the screen, then Mitch jerks his chin a little. "Don't," Dylan goes on. "Anyone who'd have enough power to do anything about it is too close to it. They'd be affected by whatever it is."

"Why am I not?" Connor asks.

Dylan and Mitch look at each other again, but this time it's Mitch who speaks. "You weren't there for long before you had that dream," he says. "And then you fell, and it got what it wanted, right? You haven't spent a ton of time at Rexall since."

"So I'm protected because I got hurt before it could mind-control me?" Connor asks. "That's, uh. Fucking creepy."

"Yeah," Mitch agrees.

"What if," Dylan says slowly. "What if it's us, too?" He makes some kind of sign with his hands, like he's grabbing at something and twisting as he yanks it towards himself.

Mitch snaps his fingers. "Anchoring," he says. He leans closer to his screen. "Shit, Dyls, what if that's part of it? It's spelled into the contracts that guys can't tell people, but Davo told us before he signed, so it doesn't apply to us. We're anchoring him for that, too."

"Fuck," Dylan bites out. "Mitch. I have no fucking idea how to _fix_ this."

"And you're sure I can't tell someone?" Connor ventures.

Mitch fixes him with a flat stare. "Have you tried telling someone who isn't team and isn't us?"

"No," Connor says.

"You won't be able to," Dylan says. "If you're lucky, you'll open your mouth and start, like, reciting poetry. If you're not lucky… you're already out for a few months. Maybe let's not test your luck."

"So we need to figure out how to fix it," Mitch says thoughtfully. He's leaning back now, staring at something past the camera. "We have an advantage. We know what it isn't."

Connor snorts. "How is that an advantage?"

"Nobody else knows it's not a curse," Dylan points out. "And Marns isn't totally useless. He and I can probably figure something out."

"You're so sweet," Mitch coos. "Not wrong, though. If nothing else, we can try to figure out how to break the confidentiality spellwork on your contract, and then you'll be able to tell someone who's actually paid to do this shit."

"Okay, so we've got a plan," Dylan says. "Davo, you're the most important part of this plan. Ready for your instructions?"

"I can't do anything," Connor protests. "You know that."

"We know that," Mitch says. "So keep doing nothing. Do nothing as far away from Rexall as you can."

"Don't let it get its claws in you," Dylan adds. "In your brain."

Connor nods slowly and leans back in his chair. "Just stay away?"

"Stay away," Dylan confirms. "If we think of something, we'll let you know, okay? Just stay safe until then."

"I'll do my best," Connor promises.

-0-

The thing is, as he heals more and more from his injury, he has to spend more and more time doing team things. He's got rehab and he's cleared for no-contact skating; he does as much of it at the practice facility as he can, but he's spending more time at Rexall than he's really comfortable with.

"Dude," Taylor says at the start of January, exasperated. "We don't have, like, cholera."

Connor stares. "Cholera? That's what you're going with?"

"It's true," Taylor says, dropping onto the sofa beside Connor. "Look, man, I know the curse is freaky, but it already got you. It's not gonna get you again if you spend some time at the rink."

"It's not a curse," Connor mutters.

There's an awkward pause, and Connor wishes he could take it back, but it's out there now. Taylor's also not the guy to ever let something go, so of course he reaches out to nudge Connor in the side. "Bro."

"I can explain, but you won't believe me," Connor says, tilting his head back against the sofa. "It's part of the… not-curse. Probably."

"This sounds like a milkshake conversation," Taylor says thoughtfully. "I'm gonna give you, like, twenty minutes to get your shit together while I get us milkshakes. Don't leave."

"Hallsy," Connor starts, but Taylor's already standing up and pointing a threatening finger at Connor.

"Be here when I get back or I'm putting something slimy in your bed," he says sternly.

"You are five years old," Connor says, astonished, but Taylor just gives him a bright smile and grabs his keys as he walks out the door.

Connor knows better than to think he's getting out of this. He's pretty sure that Taylor's spent too much time at Rexall to believe him, but Connor doesn't really need Taylor to believe him. It'd be nice, probably, but Connor just needs to tell him enough to convince him to stop asking about it.

He's more or less got a game plan by the time Taylor gets back, but it's derailed almost immediately, because Ryan and Jordan trail in after Taylor, holding milkshakes of their own.

Jordan raises an eyebrow. "We got an SOS," he says by way of explanation. "Something about you and milkshakes and the curse."

"Hallsy," Connor says, sighing.

Ryan sits on the sofa and offers him a milkshake and Connor takes it, wondering how he'd gotten to this point in his life. Jordan and Taylor cram onto the loveseat, and Connor has to take a moment out of his slight freak-out to notice how well they fit beside each other: how Jordan unconsciously makes space for the way Taylor's legs sprawl, how Taylor nudges the pillow out of the way so Jordan can slump into the cushion. It's well-worn and practised, and it's nothing like they ever do when either one of them is paying attention. Connor already hates whatever's behind all this fake curse bullshit, but now he aches, too.

Ryan must notice, because he nudges Connor's shin with his foot. Connor looks over, and Ryan's got a kind of sad look on his face too, but he shakes his head a little. "What's going on?" he asks.

"The curse isn't a curse," Connor starts. Ryan raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything, so Connor pours the whole story out — the Oilers' history, the recent details, what Dylan and Mitch had said about curse behavior and how it doesn't line up. He sort of desperately wants them to believe him, he realises about halfway through. They can't, according to the working theory, but Connor wants someone else on his side.

It's quiet when Connor finishes, and he busies himself with stirring the melted remains of his milkshake around in his cup. It's vanilla with peanut butter cup pieces, and normally Connor would be all about that, but right now it's all he can do to hold onto it while his hands shake.

"Connor," Jordan finally says, and his voice is the gentle kind of thing people use with scared animals.

"Ebby," Taylor says before Jordan can say anything else. Connor looks up, startled, but nobody's looking at him. Jordan and Taylor are staring at each other, closer than Connor's ever seen them, and Taylor's hand is low on Jordan's thigh, a familiar sort of touch. "It makes sense."

"No it doesn't," Jordan argues.

"It sort of does," Ryan says, sounding thoughtful. Connor turns to look at him. "It makes a few other things make sense, too." He shakes his head. "And I think it's kind of telling that everything in me is _screaming_ about how wrong Davo is right now."

"I," Jordan says, then stops. When Connor looks back at him, he's frowning deeply. 

"I'm a caster," Ryan continues. "I had training up until I was drafted by Red Deer, past the mandatory school shit."

"Breaker," Jordan volunteers, still frowning. "Not that good, but I never accidentally set anything on fire."

"And I'm a big, fat zero as far as magic is concerned," Taylor says. "I get nothing."

"Maybe that's why it makes sense to you," Ryan says. "Maybe the… whatever it is. Maybe that's why it didn't get you until your second season. Maybe it can't affect your perception, because it's trading on magic."

"Huh," Taylor says.

Jordan sighs. "It's a curse," he says, but he doesn't sound sure of himself. "It's always been a curse."

"Curses can be broken," Ryan says simply. "If this could be broken, don't you think someone would've by now?"

"Yeah," Jordan mutters. He shakes his head. "I don't like the idea, but I guess you're right, Nuge. I can't think about how right or wrong it might be, because something's just yelling _wrong_ in my head. That's a sign."

"Fucking creepy," Taylor says.

Connor snorts. "Yeah, that's the decision we came to, too." He sighs. "Stromer and Marns are working on it, but…"

"I don't think I'll be much help," Ryan says reluctantly. "I believe you, Davo, but that's… kind of all I can do."

"Same," Jordan says, letting his head drop. He laughs unhappily. "It's like looking at a blue thing, knowing it's blue, but everything in your head telling you it's red."

Taylor shrugs. "I mean, I'm kinda useless at this shit, but if you need someone to, like, hold something, I'm here for you."

"I'll let you know if that ends up being in the plan," Connor says, laughing.

They _believe_ him. He's having trouble believing _that_.

-0-

As it turns out, the plan actually does need someone to hold something.

"Three someones," Mitch clarifies. He's on a bus somewhere in lower Ontario; Connor doesn't have the Knights' schedule memorised, not anymore, so he's not sure where they're heading. Mitch has his headphones in, and it looks like he's jammed into the back of the bus. "Preferably a caster and a breaker, and then someone who's not super involved."

"How about someone who doesn't register on the magical scale?" Connor suggests. "If so, I actually have the perfect solution."

Mitch nods. "That's good, actually. Someone who's less likely to get sucked in if things get weird."

"I thought we agreed that things were already weird," Connor says, trying for a joke.

Mitch doesn't bite. "So Dyls and I are coming to visit you next week."

Connor stares at his phone, but Mitch isn't smiling. "What?"

"Our schedules line up," Mitch says, shrugging a little. "You've got that skills thing and then a break until after the All-Star Game. I've got a game that day and then nothing until Erie's here later that week, and Stromer's free, too. No time like the present, right?"

Connor swallows. "You're sure?"

"You're getting back on the ice soon," Mitch says flatly. "We're really fucking sure we want to do this before you start playing again."

That's a good point, actually. Connor would love for there not to be a curse thing at Rexall when he starts playing again. "Okay," he says. "What do I need to do?"

Mitch outlines what he and Dylan have thought up. It seems risky, but so is going back to the game when the building is literally out for blood. Connor can't shake the dream he'd had back in October; he's paid his dues to whatever's possessing Rexall, but he's not sure he can feel safe skating there. He's not sure he _is_ safe. Just because it hasn't claimed any repeat victims doesn't mean it can't.

"Okay," Connor says, blowing out a breath. "I'll talk to the guys. Forward me your flight details, eh?"

"Dylan has them," Mitch says. "I'll text him. And Davo?"

"Yeah?"

"We've totally got this," Mitch says, smiling like a shark. "It won't see us coming. Don't worry."

"Right," Connor says weakly as they hang up. "Don't worry. That seems legit."

He's glad that he can spend most of the week away from Rexall; management wants him to participate in the skills competition, and he can't deny that he's nervous about it. He tells everyone he's going to work his ass off at the practice rink and drags Jordan, Taylor, and Ryan over; Taylor's delighted when Connor tells him he'll have something to hold.

"I'm not sure," Jordan says, face clouding. "It's not — I believe you, Davo."

"I know," Connor says, sighing. "You believe me, you just have trouble thinking it's true."

"That doesn't make sense," Jordan says. "But yeah."

"I don't know if this will help," Ryan says thoughtfully, "but maybe don't think about it as breaking the curse. Thing. It's just a ritual, and rituals always need anchors."

Jordan's face clears a little. "That makes sense. It's just a thing for luck. For protection."

If all goes well, their luck will change drastically and they'll all be a lot safer, so Connor nods. "Mitch and Dylan will be here on Monday," he says. "We're doing it Tuesday. Hallsy, you don't leave for Nashville until Thursday, right?"

"Right," Taylor confirms. "Plenty of time to get rid of whatever creepy-crawly bastard is living in our barn."

"Eloquent," Jordan says dryly. "Do you need us to do anything beforehand?"

"I've got a list of things Marns asked me to get," Connor says, pulling his phone out. "He said some of it is stuff you might already have, and to just grab the rest from Walmart."

Ryan takes his phone and nods. "There's nothing too weird on here," he confirms. "I have a bunch of it. Ebs, you still have all your herbs?"

"They're not exactly fresh," Jordan says, taking the phone. "We can make this work, though. You should only need, like, three things at Walmart, tops."

"Good," Connor says. "I'm terrible at navigating the spellwork department, so the less I have to get, the better."

"I'll go with you," Taylor volunteers. "We can be terrible at it together."

"Awesome," Connor says, taking his phone back. "Thanks, guys."

"It's our team, too," Ryan says quietly. "We're doing this for everyone."

Connor nods. "Still."

"You're welcome," Jordan says. "Now, are we actually going to practice, or…"

"If we must," Taylor says long-sufferingly, throwing a grin at Connor as they head for the ice.

-0-

The whole thing is kind of ridiculously easy to set up, when it comes down to it.

Dylan has them sit in a circle in a training room. "No, switch," he demands when Taylor sits between him and Connor. "You're blank, right? You need to be between me and Marns."

"For balance," Ryan says, nodding as he sits between Mitch and Connor. "Nobody's next to the one most like them. Smart, Stromer."

Dylan flushes a little. "I'm not total shit at this," he mutters.

"You're good at it," Mitch says loyally, which makes Dylan's face go even pinker. Connor coughs and hides a grin, but he knows better than to poke at that bee's nest. The Dylan-and-Mitch show is endlessly entertaining, but there's a time and a place and this is neither.

"Anyway," Jordan says loudly. He's grinning from his place between Dylan and Connor. "Let's go over jobs again before we get too crazy."

"You're grounding us," Mitch says. He pats his knee, bare thanks to his basketball shorts. "Skin to skin. You don't let go."

"Feel you up," Taylor says, waggling his eyebrows as he puts his hand on Mitch's knee and squeezes. "Got it."

Dylan rolls his eyes hard enough that Connor almost feels it. "We're projecting, sort of," he elaborates. "Do not let go. We'll get stuck if you let go."

Ryan nods. "I can yank one of you out if it goes to shit," he says. "I don't have enough to draw on to get more than one of you out, though."

"Me," Dylan says. "If you get me out, I can get them out."

"You're sure?" Ryan asks.

Dylan flashes him a sharp smile. "Yes."

"Okay," Ryan says. "If I see blood, I'm pulling the plug."

"If you see blood, give us ten minutes," Mitch corrects. "Unless one of us is bleeding out."

"This seems terrifying," Taylor mutters. "Why don't we have, like, experts?"

"You're all tied into this," Mitch says. "You've all been fucked over by this thing, and Dyls and I are tied to Davo. Outsiders won't have that connection, so it won't be as effective."

Taylor sighs. "I know, Marns. I just don't like it."

"Question," Jordan says before anyone can comment. "If this works, will I remember whatever it is I forgot?"

Taylor goes completely still.

"I don't know," Dylan says quietly. "It depends, I guess. Mitch?"

"I'm gonna break whatever connection it has to this place," Mitch says. "It could restore your memories. I don't know if it will for sure, but it might."

Jordan bites his lip and nods. "Well, let's just do it, then. Unless anyone else has a question?"

Nobody says anything.

"Last thing," Dylan says, pulling a something from his pocket and handing it to Connor. "When it's time to get out, Davo, throw this. It'll dissolve our anchor to that place and toss us back here."

Connor looks down. It looks like a pebble; there doesn't seem to be anything magical about it in the least. "Okay," he says, tucking it into his pocket. "Let's do this."

"You've got this," Dylan says, shooting Connor a grin. "Just distract it. Let me and Marns do the rest."

"Got it," Connor says.

"Good," Dylan replies. "Everybody sit down, grab your buddy, and close your eyes. Shit's about to get real."

Connor takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Dylan and Mitch start speaking in tandem, starting with the same words, then saying different things. Connor can't focus on the words, but he keeps his eyes shut until their voices drift into silence.

"Hmmm," something says, and Connor blinks his eyes open.

"What," Connor says, blinking. Everything's gray, shadowed and lifeless, and there's a creature that Connor can't even begin to identify standing about six feet from him. It's angular and sharp, limbs like needles poking out from its body. Connor doesn't have to be told that this is what's responsible for everything that's happened at Rexall since the Gretzky trade.

"Call me Puck," the creature says. It smiles, and Connor feels it like a knife to the chest.

Connor does his best to stand straight, to face it head-on. "You're kidding me, right? The demon in charge of Rexall is called _Puck_?"

"You don't know much about your mythologies, do you?" Puck muses. Its face flickers, changes, smiles back at him with Gretzky's crooked grin, then Crosby's. "I was the king of hell, once. King of many hells, many times over."

"You need to leave my team alone," Connor says as steadily as he can manage. "You've taken enough from us. You need to go."

Puck looks at him, still wearing Crosby's face. It's twisted into a weird attempt at surprise for a moment before it flickers and takes on Orr's features. "You're trying to cast me out," it says, and the surprise melts into evident satisfaction. "Oh, it's been a long time since anyone has tried that. I'll give you points for effort."

"Leave," Connor repeats. "Get out. Go away. Leave us alone."

"Hmmm," Puck drawls, tapping a finger against its cheek. Orr's face flashes to Howe's, to Landeskog's, to Messier's. "No."

Connor doesn't panic. _Just distract it,_ he reminds himself. "Leave," he says again.

Puck leans in, wearing a parody of Seguin's trademark grin, and Connor will never be able to agree with anyone saying Seguin has a _devil may care_ expression again, now that he's seen the real thing. "What will you give me in return?"

"The chance to walk out of here alive," Connor says. He's trading on bravado he's not feeling, but Puck blinks, astonishment clear on Mitch's face.

"You threaten me," it says. Mitch's face blurs, and Connor sees through the mask for a second to the long, wicked features beneath. It sharpens back into Ekblad's face in an instant, but harsher, leaner. "You and what army?"

"Well, me," Dylan says, stepping out from behind the shield he'd cast to keep him and Mitch hidden while they worked. He smiles like it's a weapon, and Connor's seen him take enough faceoffs to know that it absolutely is. "Connor's asking nicely. I'm not. Fuck off."

Ekblad's face tilts as if in thought, and then Dylan is pulling in a breath as it mirrors his own face back at him. "You are the one keeping me from touching him," it says, reaching out for Dylan. Its hand stops a meter away as if it hit something, but its face gives an absolutely terrifying grin and it pushes, hands melting into long, bony fingers. Dylan shudders, but he doesn't budge, and Puck is forced to stop.

"I'm not here alone," Connor says, just to get its attention off of Dylan. It works; its face melts from Dylan's to Connor's mother, frowning at him in exasperated impatience.

"I can see that," Puck says, gesturing to Dylan. "You have no power here yourself, and you've brought a spell-caster who also holds no power, as I cannot be banished while I am still bound." Flicker, flicker, and Ference is staring at him, disappointment clear in his features. "There's another, too. A curse-breaker."

"Fucking right," Mitch says, dropping the last of the shield. He's bent over on the other side of Puck, tracing the line of something on the ground. Connor can't tell what it is, but Puck makes a startled sound, and Dylan hisses out a quiet _yes_.

"Get away from that," Puck snarls. It drops its illusions as it reaches for Mitch, but Dylan throws something at its back, and it _shrieks_. It's a long, curdling sound, and Connor feels like his bones are shuddering with the way it echoes in the empty space around them.

Dylan pulls like he's holding an invisible rope. Puck doesn't jerk back, but its forward progress slows.

"Davo," Dylan says, gritting his teeth. "Go help Marns."

"Fuck that noise, hold onto Stromer," Mitch calls. He's on his knees, looking intently at the ground. He hovers one of his hands above part of what Connor's assuming must be spellwork, then glances up. "I'm dead serious. Grab him _now_."

Connor doesn't hesitate; he throws his arms around Dylan's waist and holds tightly just as Mitch slams his hand against the floor. Puck shrieks again, writhing in the hold of whatever spellwork Dylan had thrown onto it. Connor has no idea how to describe what it's doing; it looks like it's expanding and contracting, but without moving at all, somehow. It's definitely taking a toll on Dylan, whatever's going on; his face is paling rapidly, and his arms are starting to shake with the strain of holding on.

"Let me," Connor says, trying to grab whatever Dylan's holding.

"You can't," Dylan grunts. "Not physical. Just don't let go of me."

"Three seconds," Mitch yells over the sound of Puck screaming. "Two, one — now, Stromer!"

Dylan lets go of the rope, and Puck is suddenly right over Mitch. "You," it howls, rearing back and raising one of its clawed hands over its head as Mitch screams in pain.

"I don't fucking think so," Dylan yells. He cups his hands around nothing and says something Connor can't understand, then throws a handful of glittering air at Puck. It flies like it's a solid but dashes across its back upon impact, and it freezes.

Or, no, Connor realises as he watches. It's moving in slow-motion, hand still inching down towards Mitch's torso. Mitch is grimacing beneath it, trying to wriggle away, but he's clearly hurting.

"Davo," Dylan barks, already running for Mitch. "Time to make our exit. You ready?"

Connor reaches into his pocket and pulls out the smooth white stone Dylan had handed him earlier. It's buzzing now like it hadn't been when Dylan gave it to him, and he looks up as Dylan helps Mitch out from beneath Puck. "Ready," he says.

"Think it broke my leg," Mitch grunts, his face twisted in pain. "I'm so fucking ready."

"Let's get the fuck out of here," Dylan says, reaching for Connor. He hurries over to them, holding his free hand out for Dylan and Mitch to grab onto.

"No," Puck howls from behind them.

"Now," Mitch shouts, and Connor throws the stone as hard as he can against the ground.

-0-

"Davo," someone yells, pretty much right next to his ear, and Connor gasps as he sits bolt upright.

"Fucking ouch," Dylan complains, even though he reared back before Connor hit him. "Watch your head, man."

"Did it," Connor starts, but he cuts himself off as he looks around. Ryan is next to Mitch, hands glowing over his leg, but Connor barely even looks at them.

Jordan and Taylor are hugging tightly, arms wrapped around each other. Jordan's face is tucked into Taylor's neck, and they're definitely both crying. Jordan says something, too quiet for Connor to make out, and Taylor shakes his head and presses a kiss to Jordan's temple.

"Yeah," Dylan says quietly, and when Connor turns to look at him, he's smiling. "Yeah, Connor, it worked."

-0-

The rest of the season sucks. Connor gets back on the ice, and that's great; he has an amazing personal back half, but the Oilers lose, and lose, and lose some more. They're tired and grumpy and sore, and it's pretty much the greatest thing in the world, because it's hockey and nothing more.

Connor's not sure who told team management that it was all over; he suspects it was Ryan, mostly because Jordan and Taylor were too wrapped up in each other to breathe separately, let alone talk to anyone, and he hadn't done it himself. All he knows is that at the team meeting before his first game back, Chiarelli had announced that the curse had been broken, and the stunned silence had been been broken by Jordan standing up, clearing his throat, and then leaning in to kiss Taylor square on the lips.

There had been a lot of catcalling, and more than a few guys crying. Nail had been a complete mess, and as soon as Jordan pulled away, he'd flung himself across the locker room, shouting in Russian at the top of his lungs as he bear-hugged Jordan.

Rexall is protected now in ways that Connor hadn't even known were possible. They're spelling charms and wards into every block of Rogers Place; it'll basically be impossible for what happened with Puck to happen again in Edmonton. They'll be able to rebuild in peace for the first time in their history.

Connor knows that the team is going to look different when the next season starts. Taylor and Jordan aren't talking about leaving, but if one of them goes, the other will follow; this place has taken a lot out of both of them, and Connor wants them on his team, but he wants them to be happy more than that. Nail had quietly requested a trade, and Connor can't blame him either. His guilt hadn't been erased just because the after-effects of Puck's magic had worn away, and a fresh start would be great for him. Ryan could be anywhere next season, even though he's told Connor he wants to stay, wants to stand by Connor's side and help him lead the Oilers into their future. Anything could happen, but that's hockey.

It's hockey, and that's all it is. Whatever happens in the future, Connor thinks, he's helped make sure it's just hockey, and he can be proud of that.

**Author's Note:**

> the injuries referenced in this story are all real.  
> -[taylor hall's shoulder](https://www.nhl.com/news/edmonton-oilers-forward-taylor-hall-to-undergo-left-shoulder-surgery/c-624438)  
> -[ryan nugent-hopkins' shoulder](https://www.nhl.com/news/oilers-nugent-hopkins-on-ice-after-shoulder-surgery/c-681375)  
> -[jordan eberle's shoulder](https://www.nhl.com/news/oilers-eberle-out-4-6-weeks-with-shoulder-injury/c-781148)  
> -[connor mcdavid's shoulder](https://www.nhl.com/news/oilers-forward-mcdavid-out-long-term-with-injury/c-786236)  
> -[nail yakupov's ankle](https://www.nhl.com/news/oilers-yakupov-out-2-4-weeks-with-ankle-injury/c-789895)  
> there are more! there are many more. these are just the ones i felt were relevant here. also, you can see why shoulders might be a particular area of concern for this team.
> 
> thanks to S. for being excited about this, and for a most excellent beta job, and also for a whole host of excellent comments on the draft version of this, including the memorable "hi would you like a milkshake made of my heart" which might, in fact, be the best comment ever. the very last scene is also only there because she told me that i did actually need closure, and she was correct. <3
> 
> -i did a DVD commentary edition of this story! if you want a bunch of background notes and a few details from other POVs, [check it out](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1v06F3s_ddZWLeNm7a2o7bJQit6aV76mWs7eFCYG8WXU/edit?usp=sharing).
> 
> [follow me on tumblr](http://somehowunbroken.tumblr.com) for hockey 25/7, because i needed an extra hour in each day just to contain all my hockey feelings.


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